


Auspices

by youaremarvelous



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sequel, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-05 02:21:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10295360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youaremarvelous/pseuds/youaremarvelous
Summary: Sequel toArrivalsHow many Russians does it take to cure a sick person?Yuuri probably doesn't want to be the punchline to that joke.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> while not graphic, there is a vomit mention, so emetophobes please proceed with caution.

Viktor rests his hand against Yuuri’s forehead and slides it down to his cheek. “How long did the doctor say till his fever should drop?”

 

Yuri squirms under Yuuri’s hold, trying to disentangle himself without waking him. “He didn’t. He said to give him the antibiotics according to the instructions and he should be better in a couple days.”

 

Viktor carefully pries Yuuri’s fingers from around Yuri’s waist, shushing him gently when he stirs. “And in the meantime?”

 

Yuri scoots off the bed and straightens his shirt with a questioning look. “I don’t know, feed him? Give him fluids, make him sleep? You’re his owner, you figure it out.”

 

Viktor would normally reprimand him for that kind of comment, but instead he combs a hand through his hair and trails Yuri out of the room. “You’re leaving?” He asks, tapping an anxious rhythm on the kitchen counter.

 

Yuri jerks his head back, eyebrows raised to his hairline. “...Yes?” Because _honestly_ , why would he stay in this den of germs any longer than he has to? Viktor is here, his shift has ended. “Why the fuck would I stay?”

 

“Right, of course.” Viktor taps a finger over his lips. “But. You were the one who spoke to the doctor, so—”

 

“Don’t tell me you’re scared to be alone with your own damn fiance.” Yuri deadpans, folding his arms over his chest.  

 

“Of course not! I love Yuuri, I love spending alone time with him!”

 

“Okay, tmi.”

 

“But I just—” Viktor picks up the pill bottle and studies the label, setting it back down on the marble counters with a hollow clack. “I’ve never really...taken care of a sick person?”

 

Yuri openly gapes at him, but really, it makes sense. Viktor has lived alone for as long as he’s known him. He’s barely sick himself, and he’s never been responsible for the wellbeing of anyone besides his damn dog. Still, it isn’t exactly rocket science, and Yuri isn’t especially in the mood to coddle a 28-year-old adult, no matter how woefully childlike he can be.

 

“Google it.” He replies harshly, pushing out the door into the hallway before Viktor has time to argue.

 

Yuri doesn’t stray far, choosing to settle himself at a nearby restaurant. _Not_ because he’s worried, but it’s getting late and he’s yet to eat dinner. He bemoans the fact that he forgot to demand some cash off Viktor for his services—deciding to stop by the apartment tomorrow for his just rewards—and has just tucked into a bowl of solyanka when his phone buzzes with a text.  

 

 

(20:38) Should I wake him up for his next dose of medicine or just let him sleep?

 

 

Yuri rolls his eyes and flips his phone over, fighting the urge to respond. The idiot baldy can figure it out for himself. It’s best for him to learn now, and if the katsudon has to be his test subject then so be it. He was the one who wanted to marry the geezer, after all.

 

His resolve stays strong for a good twenty minutes, but by the time his phone has buzzed for the third time and his spoon is scraping the bottom of the bowl, he sighs and flips the cell over, quickly reading the string of messages.

 

 

(20:46) I think his fever went up

 

(20: 49) I woke him for the medicine but he’s refusing to drink something with it? I should definitely make him do it though, right????

 

(20:57) Forcing was maybe not a good idea? He threw up in his lap??????? ? ?/?/  

 

 

Yuri barges through Viktor’s apartment door without knocking.

 

“Yurio?” Viktor calls from the bedroom. His voice is high and reedy, threaded with panic.

 

Yuri stomps into the bedroom to find Yuuri in nothing but his boxer briefs, sitting on the floor at the end of the bed and shivering while Viktor rushes to change out the bedclothes.

 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Yuri kneels next to Yuuri and palms his forehead, quietly hissing at the damp heat still radiating there.

 

“I—” Viktor pauses, stumbling backward when the fitted sheet snaps itself away from the corner of the mattress and whaps him in the mouth. “Changing the sheets?”  

 

He looks utterly ridiculous—frazzled and openly distressed with his hair sticking up in all directions and what looks to be a drying vomit stain on his shirt. It’s a far cry from the cool, composed persona he exhibits to the public, and Yuri would like to roast him mercilessly for it, but...later. At the moment, he finds himself completely preoccupied with the worrying dazed look in Yuuri’s glossy, fever-bright eyes.

 

Yuri hides his concern behind a scowl. “And you didn’t think to take care of him first?”

 

Viktor flattens his lips together and pulls his chin back, looking from the rumpled mess of sheets to his rumpled mess of a fiancé with wide eyes. “But the bed...I?”

 

“C’mon, Katsudon,” Yuri sighs and tugs Yuuri up by the elbow, “we’re moving you to the couch while this idiot figures out how sheets work.”

 

“The couch!” Viktor shouts after him, as if it’s the world’s biggest revelation.

 

Yuuri doesn’t respond except to turn his head and heave a wet, crackling cough into his bare shoulder. The strength of it leaves him weak-kneed and gagging and Yuri yells after Viktor to stop fooling around and bring them the wastebasket unless he wants Yuuri to make a repeat performance on his couch cushions.  

 

“Sorry,” Yuuri apologizes in a hoarse whisper when he’s gained control of himself again.

 

Yuri deposits him on the couch and bites the inside of his cheek, trying very hard to ignore the thrumming of his heartbeat in his clenched jaw. “Shut up,” he tells him, pulling a throw blanket over Yuuri’s lap.   

 

He pushes gently against Yuuri’s shoulders, trying to encourage him to lie down, but as soon as the katsudon’s head hits the pillow, he jerks back up—pawing at his ear and scrunching up his face as tears work tracks down his flushed cheeks. “Hurts,” he rasps out, throat bobbing.

 

“What hurts,” Yuri demands, not unkindly. He takes Yuuri’s clammy hand in his, pulling it away from his face and back to his lap. Yuuri doesn’t reply but the answer is obvious enough—evident in the angry red shell of his ear. Yuri clicks his tongue and sits back on his heels. “Viktor, we need your laptop.”

 

Yuuri whimpers and swallows convulsively with a wince and Yuri hesitantly pats his knee, words of comfort catching in his throat. He’s almost grateful for the interruption when Viktor tumbles out of the bedroom— the top sheet wrapped around his shoulder and waist like a toga.

 

“What are you—” Yuri begins, but then rolls his eyes to the ceiling and shakes his head. “Forget it, we need to search what to do for an earache.”

 

“I thought you knew what you were doing.” Viktor trips his way to the kitchen table and wrenches the laptop open, cursing silently as he repeatedly tries and fails to type out “google.com” with trembling fingers.

 

Yuri groans and pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Use the fucking search bar, you stupid geezer.”  

 

Viktor takes a deep breath to calm himself and Yuri heads to the kitchen for the thermometer. “Did you manage to get him to take his medicine?”

 

Viktor looks over his shoulder—the laptop light shining off the worried creases on his forehead. “Well, I did, but—” he looks down at his shirt. Answer enough.

 

Yuri doesn’t reprimand him for once. Even he has to admit it’s not really Viktor’s fault that the pig couldn’t handle another round of liquids. Probably.

 

He pulls a mug out of a cabinet and fills it with water—eyeing the kettle warily before popping the cup in the microwave. He might not be as utterly incompetent as Viktor is in the kitchen, but only in the sense that he’s never microwaved a phone and can cook an egg without burning it. “Please tell me you have tea.”

 

Viktor nods distractedly and points to the pantry and Yuri huffs but dutifully digs through it until he unearths a box of ginger tea. ‘ _Does tea expire_ _?_ ’ He wonders as he brushes dust off the cover. ‘ _Probably not_ ,’ he decides, sniffing the contents before plopping a bag into the steaming mug.

 

Yuri leaves the tea to steep and tracks back to Yuuri’s side with the thermometer in hand. The katsudon is already asleep by the time he makes it back to the couch. He’s still sitting up—head craned back into the cushions with his mouth slightly open and dark yellow snot crusted around his nostrils. Yuri grimaces and jostles his shoulder. “Hey, temp and medicine first. Then you can sleep.”

 

Yuuri sniffles pitifully but opens his eyes, startling only slightly when Yuri forces the thermometer under his tongue. Yuri sits on the couch armrest and taps an uneasy rhythm on his knee, trying not to grind his teeth when the katsudon’s chest heaves with forced back coughs. He hops to his feet when the tool finally breaks the uneasy silence with a high pitched beep, wrenching the thermometer from Yuuri’s mouth to assess the reading.

 

Viktor pushes himself back from the table, “what’s it say?”

 

Yuri mentally curses. “103,” he rounds down for the sake of the geezer’s sanity.

 

“What?” Viktor gasps, nearly upending his chair in his frenzy to reach his fiancé’s side.

 

“Fevers always rise at night.” Yuri tries to sound calmer than he feels. “And he hasn’t had any medicine in a while. You find anything about earaches?”

 

Viktor combs his fingers through Yuuri’s hair, petting the soft slope of his burning cheek with his thumb. “It said to put a warm towel against his ear,” Viktor says, murmuring quiet words of comfort when Yuuri stutters out a wet cough, “and to have him sleep propped up so his sinuses can drain.”

 

Yuri nods to himself, heading to the kitchen for the tea. “We can try the towel tomorrow, his face is hot enough already.” He cringes when the words leave his mouth but they are met without comment—the truest testament to just how preoccupied with worry Viktor is.

 

“Should we take him to the hospital?” Viktor asks when he returns to their side. He has deposited a pile of pillows on the couch and is hesitantly trying to coax Yuuri into leaning on them.  

 

Yuri sets the tea on the coffee table and twists the lid off the pill bottle. “No, it’s not that serious.” He replies, shaking a pill into his palm. “Katsudon, you’ve got to take this before you sleep.”

 

Yuuri’s eyebrows knit together. He tries to shake his head but stops abruptly, his shoulders stiff with pain. “Don’t want it,” he whispers instead, his voice thick with congestion and cracking painfully over each syllable.

 

“It’s warm, it won’t hurt your throat.” Yuri leans forward to help Yuuri drink but then freezes and hands the mug to Viktor, instead.

 

For once, Viktor seems to know exactly what to do. He sits on the couch, propping Yuuri’s body against his and cupping one hand behind Yuuri’s head as he eases the mug of lukewarm tea to his pale and cracking lips. “Is this okay?” He asks softly, pulling the drink back when Yuuri has taken a decent sized sip.

 

Yuuri hums softly with a wet sniffle. “It stings,” he croaks, but doesn’t protest when Yuri hands him a pill to swallow and Viktor brings the cup back to his mouth. He manages to drink half of the tea before curling his knuckles over his lips and pinching his eyes shut in silent refusal. It’s not great, but it’s something, and Viktor rubs his back encouragingly.     

 

“What a good and brave boy you are,” He praises, tears prickling the outer corner of his eyes when Yuuri peers up at him with a bleary half smile. He presses a kiss into Yuuri’s burning temple, too overcome with affection and relief to worry about germs.

 

The room is well heated but Yuuri trembles uncontrollably against him, patches of goose pimples blooming across his sallow skin. “Should we dress him again?” Viktor asks nervously, pulling the throw blanket up around Yuuri’s shoulders.  

 

Yuri shrugs and caps the pill bottle. “Maybe later. Let’s wait for his fever to go down first.”

 

Viktor nods and then pauses—glancing up at Yuri with raised eyebrows. “‘Let’s’? Do you intend to stay the night?”  

 

Yuri presses his lips together and tilts his chin down, glaring at Viktor through his bangs. “You expect me to walk home alone at this time of night? The last bus has already run, geezer.”

 

Yuri wouldn’t normally care about that sort of thing. He grew up in Moscow, for god’s sake, he’s not scared of walking home in the dark. But whether Viktor genuinely believes Yuri or is simply relieved that he won’t lose his co-caretaker, he seems to take him at his word.

 

“You can take the bed if you want,” Viktor wipes a tissue under Yuuri’s nose, frowning lightly at the way his nostrils whistle with each slow, sleepy breath. “I’m going to stay out here with him.”

 

Yuri doesn’t argue it, though he sort of wants to. There’s not much that can be done for Yuuri at the moment other than keeping him comfortable, and Viktor seems marginally better at offering his ministrations than Yuri is.

 

“You just want me to dress the bed,” he grumbles, pausing in the threshold to the bedroom. “Make sure to take his temp again in a couple hours.”

 

“Okay, Yurio,” Viktor quietly agrees, gently stroking Yuuri’s bicep as he eases into sleep.

 

“And try to get him to drink more. There’s juice in the fridge.”

 

Viktor hums his understanding.

 

Yuri takes one last long look at the katsudon. He doesn’t appear much better than when he first arrived—swollen-faced and stiff with pain—but now, anyway, he seems mildly contented. Yuri shakes his head with a short sigh and moves to dig through Viktor’s dresser for something to wear to bed. Somehow, he can’t quite shake the feeling that they’re in for a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmm whatcha say
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://youremarvelous.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

Yuuri wakes in the dead of night, wrapped in sweltering heat and darkness. He tries to orient himself to his surroundings, but it’s hard when his senses are being overridden by the unbearable pain in his head and neck and the sharp sting burning his throat with each labored breath.   

 

“Viktor,” he whines, or tries to. The words come out whistling and soft, caught in the back of his throat behind a wall of burning phlegm. The prickle sets off a coughing fit—the most excruciating he ever remembers experiencing. His shoulders shake with it, rattling his pounding head and shredding his swollen throat like sharp shards of glass.

 

He covers both hands over his mouth and scrunches his eyes closed, trying to calm the fit, but his chest continues to convulse—his throat squeezing painfully and triggering his gag reflex. Tears roll down his cheeks but he is powerless to stop them, he really doesn’t want to throw up, but it’s impossible to swallow down the saliva pooling into his mouth. It hurts too much. Everything hurts too much.

 

His brain feels waterlogged—all sensory information slips through his fingers like a sieve. He doesn’t know the time or the date or where he is, nor does he even really care. All of his mental processes—all of his identity—is reduced to agonizing, disorienting pain.

 

He wants his Mom.

 

He wants Viktor.

 

And then just as suddenly as he wishes it, Viktor is there, rubbing his back and whispering something into his ear. Yuuri doesn’t recognize the words, so he shakes his head—black spots dancing in his vision.

 

“Water,” Viktor says again, louder this time, and presses a glass against his lips.

 

Yuuri doesn’t want water—he doesn’t want anything but to be able to breathe—but saying so is impossible in his current state, so he opens his mouth and accepts it, anyway. The sensation is jarring at first, he sputters helplessly, spraying Viktor and himself and dribbling stray rivulets of water down his chin. The second sip is more successful, slipping down his clenched throat and cooling the molten daggers piercing him there.

 

The pain is still present, but the edge is dulled and more bearable.

 

Yuuri utters a congested whimper and Viktor clucks his tongue and cups his cheek, pulling their foreheads together. “My poor solnyshko,” he soothes, pulling away and wiping a tear from Yuuri’s eye with the pad of his thumb. “You’re burning.”

 

Yuuri doesn’t argue. Flames are licking his throat and burning up his vision at the edges, melting the world into undulating kaleidoscopic waves.

 

“Open up,” Viktor tells him. Yuuri doesn’t remember doing so, but suddenly there’s a thermometer in his mouth, clacking against his teeth. It’s gone just as quickly, replaced by a shrill, electronic beep. Viktor doesn’t tell him the reading. Instead, he presses his lips into a tight line—his face drawn and uncharacteristically grim.

 

“ _Дерьмо́_.” He hisses under his breath, running a hand through his bangs. He absentmindedly rubs Yuuri’s knee, staring at the carpet and muttering quietly to himself.

 

Yuuri gives a congested sniff, his sinuses gurgling painfully. “Viktor?”

 

Viktor startles and looks up, taking Yuuri’s clammy hand in his own and threading their fingers together. “Don’t worry, lyubov moya.” He says, pecking his lips again Yuuri’s knuckles, right over his ring. “We’re going to fix this.”  

 

Yuuri slumps back into the damp pillows and watches Viktor with dazed eyes as he hurriedly fetches the laptop from the kitchen table and brings it back to his spot on the couch. “It’s almost ten in Hasetsu,” Viktor slides the laptop onto the coffee table. “Why don’t we give Okaasan a call?”

 

The talk is a short one, or at least it feels short to Yuuri. His brain is working on a delay and the meaning of each word scatters like a breaking tide before he can process it. It’s nice to see his Mom’s face, though, even if he can’t completely keep up with the conversation. He wishes she were here to feed him daikon syrup and tie burnt leeks around his throat.

 

“That child always runs high fevers,” he hears her tell Viktor. She folds her arms over her chest, cupping a cheek in her hand with a sad smile when Yuuri is shaken with another harsh coughing fit. “That sounds just awful. Strep, you say?”

 

Viktor gives a tight nod. “And a sinus infection,” he confirms, tapping something into the notes app on his phone.

 

“He’s a tough boy, Vicchan.” Hiroko’s voice is sweet and soft: tender in a way that reminds Yuuri of when he was sick as a child and was lulled to sleep by the sound of her softly sung lullabies. “He’ll be okay.”

 

“I know,” Viktor says. The smile he gives her is subdued but real—tempered by the wild beating of his heart. “Thanks for your help, Okaasan. Say hello to Otousan and Mari-neesan for us.”

 

“Of course,” Hiroko agrees warmly. “Come visit us soon, you two!” She waves, her cheery face freezing just for a moment before the screen goes black.

 

Viktor sighs and closes Facetime, blinking at the open air above the computer before taking a deep breath and running a hand down his face. He turns to Yuuri, his features washed out and pale in the bright laptop light. “Why don’t we see if we can do something about that cough.”

 

Yuuri would very much like to have something done about his cough, but he doesn’t have the opportunity to say as much before Viktor is lifting him into his arms. His head spins from the change in elevation and he buries his head into Viktor’s chest, grasping a hand into his shirt. “Vitya,” he croaks, his lungs rebelling harshly as he gasps to catch a breath between shoulder shaking coughs.  

 

“It’s okay.” Viktor’s voice sounds calmer than he feels. He doesn’t want to scare Yuuri, but his lack of resistance to being carried is disconcerting.

 

Viktor is just passing through the bedroom to the master bath when the mattress creaks in time with a loud yawn and a blonde head pokes out from a bundle of blankets. “What’s going on?” Yurio asks, voice thick with sleep.

 

“Yuuri’s fever spiked again,” Viktor quietly explains. “It’s okay, just go back to sleep.”

 

Yurio sits up and stretches his arms over his head before relaxing his limbs and rubbing a wrist against his eyes. “I’ll make some tea.”

 

Viktor is too busy fiddling with the bathtub tap to bother stopping him and Yuuri sits slumped on the toilet, his head leaned against the blissfully cold marble counter. The bathroom light shines hazily above him, gleaming brightly over each metallic fixture and white tile and escalating the nauseating pounding behind his eyes.

 

The pain makes his heart beat a frenzied pace in his chest—his lips and feet tingling from lack of oxygen—and Yuuri squeezes his eyes closed, willing his breathing to regulate. The absolute last thing he needs right now is to have an anxiety attack.

 

Yuuri can feel Viktor moving around him, but he keeps his eyes shut and concentrates on taking slow and even breaths. His lungs feel tight and heavy, and he knows filling them to capacity will plummet him into another throat-shredding coughing fit.

 

“C’mon, love,” Yuuri feels Viktor’s hands under his armpits, lowering him down to the floor and a soft mountain of towels. “Let’s get you cooled down, yeah?”

 

Yuuri tenses his muscles as much as they will allow, preparing himself to be deposited into the bathtub. Viktor doesn’t move him, though. Instead, he strokes a damp, cold washcloth across his forehead, trailing it down the side of his cheek to the crook of his neck. Yuuri shivers, wincing when a stray icy droplet drips from his shoulder down the length of his spine.

 

“I know, solnyshko,” Viktor soothes, a quiet acknowledgment to Yuuri’s discomfort. “But we have to get that fever of yours down.”

 

“I’m okay,” Yuuri tells him, voice quivering and strained. He’s not sure why he says it, as it’s quite clearly not the truth. But all of his thoughts are buoyant and aqueous, bobbing in his mind just out of reach. All he knows is Viktor is worried—sitting back on his heels across from Yuuri, the skin around his eyes and mouth uncharacteristically tense and drawn—and he wants him not to be.

 

Yuuri stares transfixed and reaches searching fingers to smooth the unfamiliar wrinkles marring Viktor’s features, and Viktor grabs his hand in his own and holds it near his cheek. “You will be,” he agrees, swiping the washcloth up Yuuri’s neck, cupping his head behind his ear. “Because you’re such a strong boy.”

 

Yuuri smiles dopily at him, his heart swelling when Viktor huffs out an affectionate laugh and returns the gesture. “Are you feeling any better?” He asks, his voice lilting and hopeful.

 

Yuuri nods before he can really examine it, but actually, he _is_ feeling better. His chest doesn’t feel as tight as before and his lungs don’t hitch with every breath. He stares at Viktor, blinking hard. There’s no way his fiancé could be a secret healer. That’s definitely something that only exists in gaming... _right?_

 

The door opens with a squeak and Yuuri turns his head in dismay, surprised to find Yurio squeezing himself through the doorway instead of throwing the door open in his usual unrestrained manner.

 

“Hurry, hurry,” Viktor encourages quietly, taking the mug from Yurio and closing the door behind him.

 

‘ _Why the rush_ ?’ Yuuri distantly wonders. He squints his eyes—concentrating hard—and for the first time notices the thick steam shrouding the mirror and coating the tiles in slippery condensation. ‘ _So_ that’s _why the shower has been running_.’

 

“Vitya is so smart,” he says in hushed astonishment and Viktor pauses and blinks at Yuuri with wide eyes before turning to Yurio with a knowing smile.

 

“Don’t get cocky,” Yurio rolls his eyes, folding his arms over his chest and plopping down on the toilet seat. “You still don’t know how to cook a damn egg.”

 

“How was I supposed to know they explode in the microwave, it’s not like those things come with instructions!” Viktor retorts, bending down to help Yuuri drink his tea. Yurio yawns loudly and Viktor peers over his shoulder at him. “The little kitten can return to bed, I’ve got it handled here.”

 

“I’m not a fucking kitten,” Yurio grumbles, crossing one leg over the other. “If I left you alone you’d probably find some way to make him asphyxiate on his tea.”

 

As if on cue, Yuuri chokes loudly into the mug, his body bending under the weight of each heavy, wet cough. Viktor draws the cup back and Yuuri clamps down on his bottom lip, struggling to catch his breath. He grips his fingers into the bathroom rug, his knuckles going white as his chest heaves uncontrollably.

 

“It’s okay, moya lyubov,” Viktor places the tea on the counter and pets Yuuri’s back. “Just let it out.”

 

Yuuri nods, his cheeks red and tears dotting the corner of his scrunched eyes. He wants to expel the fluid burdening his lungs—he knows he’ll heal faster if he does—but the effort of doing so is murder on his abused throat.

 

He sputters helplessly into his hand, whimpering weakly as he spits up blood-streaked phlegm into an awaiting tissue.    

   

“That’s good, you did so well,” Viktor praises him, scratching his nails up the back of Yuuri’s neck.

 

“Stop treating him like your damn dog,” Yurio complains, barely concealing his worry behind a scowl.

 

“Look,” Viktor ignores his comment, holding the soiled tissue up to Yurio’s face. “Blood! _Now_ can we go to the hospital?”

 

“No,” Yurio pushes his hand away. “There’s hardly any, you can call the doctor about it in the morning. Stop being such a damn worrywart.”

 

Yuuri is grateful for Yurio’s presence. He doesn’t have the energy to allay Viktor’s fears. He doesn’t have the energy to do much more than hack up mucus, weak-limbed and ragdoll limp. He’s going to be fine, though. His sinuses feel squeezed and uncomfortable and his senses are dulled, but already he can feel the murky recesses of fever abating.

 

“Okay, then—” Viktor re-wets the washcloth, kneeling across from Yuuri and pulling his arm up,  swiping the sopping rag under his armpit. “I’ll be your doctor.”

 

Yurio straightens up immediately and shakes his head. “Nuh-uh, no. No roleplaying while I’m in here.”

 

“Yurio is no fun, hmm?” Viktor asks Yuuri, carefully sliding the washcloth between each trembling finger. “I suppose if he doesn’t want to play along, he could go look up whether or not it’s okay to mix fever reducers with your antibiotics.”

 

Yurio scoffs and sighs. “Fine,” he agrees sharply, grabbing the mostly empty mug on his way out.

 

Viktor smiles after him, turning back to Yuuri when the door slams shut with a bang. “It feels like your fever has lowered a bit,” he tells him, rubbing the cold cloth against the slope of his overheated cheek. “You want to try to go back to sleep?”

 

Yuuri nods, sniffling miserably.

 

Viktor clucks his tongue and offers Yuuri a tissue. “This isn’t how I wanted your introduction to Russia to go,” he sighs, handing Yuuri another tissue when he finishes with the first.

 

“I’ve been here before,” Yuuri points out, his voice slightly less congested than before but still soft and raspy. He rubs at the bridge of his nose with the back of his wrist—trying to alleviate the pressure there.

 

“But not _here_ here,” Viktor laments, tossing Yuuri’s used tissues into the wastebasket.

 

Yuuri wants to argue, but his head is still buzzing with pain and fever and the words don’t come to him. ‘ _Later_ ,’ he assures himself. He will tell Viktor just how much he means to him, how he’d live in a cardboard box and endure a lifetime of endless flu if it meant getting to stay by his side. He will say it all, but not now while his throat is raw and burning and his brain is throbbing insistently behind his eyes.

 

Viktor doesn’t seem to need an answer, anyway. If there’s one thing Yuuri would’ve never expected of Viktor but has come to greatly covet, it’s his appreciation of their silence.

 

Viktor reaches into the tub and turns off the water. “Do you want to try to walk this time, solnyshko?”

 

Yuuri considers it. While he does feels better than before, the improvement is marginal. He can still feel the stirrings of fever boiling beneath his skin—draining his strength and leaving him languid and lightheaded. But there’s a nagging voice in his head that tells him Viktor wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t find Yuuri’s helplessness somewhat vexing. After all, his plans for their first night living together surely involved body fluids and massages vastly different in context than the ones he’s been dealing with as of yet.

 

Yuuri can’t really change that. There’s no way he can drum up enough energy to replicate anything nearing seduction, but he _can_ try to be less of a burden.

 

He places a clammy palm on the floor, bracing his muscles before slowly lifting himself up, leaning heavily on the wall for leverage. If his brain is slow to register what a poor idea this maneuver is, his body is quick to deliver the message: pain splinters across his temples, sparking his vision with bright bursts of white. The intensity of it makes his knees wobble; his stomach crawls up his throat and he gags weakly from the pressure.

 

Viktor is quick to act—grabbing Yuuri by the elbows and pulling him into his lap. “Yuuri,” he breathes, wrapping his arms around him and petting a hand through his hair. Yuuri whines low in his throat, rubbing at his face with trembling hands. He can feel Viktor’s heartbeat against his back, pounding quick and insistent.  

 

“Nngh. Sorry,” he apologizes through numb lips, squeezing his eyes closed and leaning his forehead into the crook of Viktor’s neck.

 

“It’s okay, love, just—” Viktor kneads the heel of his palm into Yuuri’s shoulder, easing up the pressure when Yuuri shudders below him—“let me take care of you. You don’t have to be afraid to ask for things, okay?

 

Yuuri pulls his head back, frowning at Viktor with fever-glazed eyes. “But what can I do for you?” The question is bigger than this moment. It’s one Yuuri has been mulling over for a while—tucking it into bed with him every night and stirring it around in his brain at any hint of a cold text reply or uncomfortably silent meal.  

 

“My sweet boy,” Viktor kisses Yuuri’s cheek, right below his eye. “The only thing you have to do for me is to get better.”

 

Yuuri blinks up at Viktor, his eyes dewy with affection.

 

“Now let’s get you back to bed, hmm?” Viktor slides his arms around Yuuri’s back and behind his knees, lifting him again.

 

Yuuri hadn’t realized how warm the bathroom was until he’s forced to leave it. He shivers violently in Viktor's embrace, pulling his arms to his bare chest, and looks down at himself—for the first time really registering his own undressed state. Yuuri distantly realizes that Kaasan must have seen him sprawled next to Viktor on the couch, clad only in his underwear. It should embarrass him, but through the dizzy haze of fever, it’s more of an observation than a feeling.

 

“Vitya,” he huddles himself closer to Viktor’s chest, his voice tremoring faintly. “I-it’s cold.”

 

“Only because your fever is too high,” Viktor gently deposits him on the couch, rushing off to rummage through his drawers, anyway.

 

“His suitcase is over here, idiot,” Yurio calls from the kitchen table.

 

“But I have something better,” Viktor declares, making his way back to Yuuri’s side. “Here, darling.” He slides a jacket around Yuuri’s back, helping his arms into the familiar white and red sleeves.

 

Yuuri feels the breath catch in his throat, this time from affection rather than illness. “It’s a perfect fit,” Viktor delights, zipping it over Yuuri’s goose-pimpled chest. It’s far from it, really. The jacket swims around his waist, stretching several inches past the tips of his fingers. But he can’t really find it in himself to argue. Despite it all, it does feel like a perfect fit, in the same ineffable way that everything involving Viktor seems to meld so effortlessly into Yuuri’s life.

 

“I love you,” Yuuri finds himself telling Viktor before his fever-addled brain can convince him not to.

 

Yurio chokes on something in the kitchen and Viktor smiles warmly, combing Yuuri’s hair back from his forehead. “If you wanted my Olympic jacket so badly, you could’ve just asked for it.” He teases.

 

“Vitya,” Yuuri whines, the tail end of it mutating into another productive cough.

 

“I know, I know,” Viktor placates, kissing him on the forehead and then the tip of his red nose. “I love you, too. And I’ll be right here while you sleep, okay?”

 

Yuuri nods slowly, leaning his head back into the pillow and closing his eyes. The jacket smells like Viktor—the whole apartment does—and it makes him warm in a way that has nothing to do with his fever. He can feel Viktor interweave their fingers together, and despite the aching in his joints and the whistling of his breaths, finds himself drifting to sleep—feeling safe and warm and loved.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied, there's 3 chapters. (and Makkachin shows up! Don't worry, I didn't forget him.) 
> 
> Comments warm my lonely heart. 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://youremarvelous.tumblr.com/) if you wanna chat.


	3. Chapter 3

“Yura.” Viktor rubs his thumb over Yuuri’s eyebrow, sitting back on his heels when Yuuri scrunches his nose and sniffs miserably. “Yura, it’s time for your medicine.”

 

Yuuri utters a crackling groan and nuzzles his face into his pillow. “Vitya?” He asks weakly, his voice muffled by the fabric. 

 

“Mmhmm?” Viktor hums, combing his fingers through the sweat-soaked curls at the base of Yuuri’s head. 

 

“How much did I drink last night?” Yuuri croaks, swallowing thickly from the piercing pain in his throat. 

 

Viktor’s face softens with a smile. “This isn’t a hangover, solnyshko.” He unfurls his hand and lays it across Yuuri’s clammy forehead, pinching his lips together before moving it down to his cheek. “You’re sick, do you remember?”

 

Yuuri squints his eyes, trying to recall the events of the previous day. He remembers everything fairly clearly up until the first time he went to bed that night. Then his memory becomes a dilapidated film reel—composed only of muddled words, faint impressions, and oppressive, overwhelming heat. 

 

“Nn. Not really,” Yuuri admits. He tries to push himself up by his elbows but freezes when the movement sends pain rocketing up his neck to throb angrily behind his temples. Blood roars in Yuuri’s ears from the intensity of it and he stutters out a breath, clenching his eyes closed again to ride out the pain. A firm hand takes him by the shoulder—easing him back into the cushions—and Yuuri curls his knuckles against his eyes, whimpering weakly from the pressure.

 

“Sinuses?” Viktor asks quietly, moving to close the curtains. 

 

Yuuri rubs at at his temples with faintly shaking fingers, the message made clear enough. “Where’s Yurio?” He asks when the world has finally slowed its spinning.  

 

“Believe it or not, some of us have better things to do than cry at your bedside.” Yurio glares at Viktor from the doorway, slamming the door shut with his heel.

 

“Speak of the devil—” Viktor retorts, laughing lightly when Makkachin charges towards his owner, tripping up Yurio and wrenching the leash from his hand.  

 

“Makkachin?” Yuuri rasps, looking over his shoulder with a wince. Makkachin immediately redirects his path, barreling over to the couch and snuffling his wet nose into Yuuri’s neck. Viktor watches—smiling fondly—ready to pull him off if need be, but Yuuri seems to revel in the dog’s attention—smiling brighter than he has since Viktor arrived back from his trip. 

 

“Were you a good boy for Mila?” Viktor kneels down next to them, cupping either side of the poodle’s face between his hands. Makkachin lets out one loud “bork” and pounces on Viktor, licking his face in response and Yuuri wheezes out what sounds like the intersection of a laugh and a cough.   

 

“Enough sappy shit.” Yurio interrupts the moment, dropping a plastic bag on the kitchen table. “I brought breakfast.”

 

“He  _ does _ care!” Viktor exclaims as if he didn’t already know it.

 

Yurio scowls and draws a sweet bun from the bag, stuffing half the thing in his mouth at once. “You owe me 3,000 rubles, geezer,” he says through a mouthful of bread, pointing the half-eaten bun at Viktor. A raisin falls to the floor and Makkachin abandons his Dad’s side in his mad scurry to eat it. 

 

“What an expensive breakfast,” Viktor raises an eyebrow, chuckling when Makkachin licks up the raisin and immediately spits it back out again. “Yura—” he turns to Yuuri, gently brushing back the sweat-matted hair from his forehead—”do you think you could try to eat something?”

 

Yuuri’s lips twitch into a pensive frown at the thought. He doesn’t exactly feel nauseated, but his stomach is sore and sensitive—the sour taste of bile still too easy to recollect. Yuuri is always slow to throw up, but once he finally has, the break in his fortitude is total and vomiting comes easily. He fears that the wrong movement, the wrong smell—even something as innocuous as a bright light—will send the bile rushing back up his throat. 

 

Now that his fever has abated enough to be aware of himself, he really doesn’t want the embarrassment of belching up vomit in front of his fiancé and rinkmate. Nor does he particularly desire the brutal sting of acid on his already abused throat.

 

Eating is just tempting fate, so Yuuri shakes his head—his face blanched at the thought. 

 

“It doesn’t have to be much.” Viktor doesn’t relent. He stands and goes to sift through the bag’s contents—drawing out a container of plain porridge. “But you’ve got to have something in your tummy so you can take your medicine.” 

 

“T-tum—” Yuuri starts, the word lost behind a sharp intake of breath followed by a wet sneeze. 

 

“Bless you, darling.” Viktor sets the steaming container of porridge on the coffee table and hands Yuuri a tissue. 

 

Yuuri blows heartily, plugging one nostril then the other, and pulls the tissue back—eyes widening at the sight. 

 

“What is it?” Viktor asks, forehead creasing in worry at Yuuri’s stunned expression. He takes his wrist and pulls it down to see the tissue’s contents. “Oh—” he gasps. Of all the things he had expected to see, the vibrant bloom of dark red blood wasn’t near the top of the list. Viktor glances up just in time to see more of it drip from Yuuri’s right nostril, pooling into the crease of his lips. He grabs a fresh tissue and presses it up to Yuuri’s nose, tossing the used one in the wastebasket. 

 

“What is it?” Yurio sets a glass of apple juice next to the porridge, drawn to the room by Viktor’s exclamation.

 

“Nosebleed,” Viktor answers simply, bawling up the tissue pressed against Yuuri’s chapped nostrils and grabbing a new one from the box. 

 

Yurio watches wordlessly, his mouth screwed up in a grimace. “Well, that explains last night.”

 

It does, but Viktor wouldn’t say he’s particularly happy about it. He makes a mental note to research how to reintroduce moisture to his poor fiancé’s sinuses. Certainly the apartment heating isn’t helping, but he’s loathe to shut it off when the temperatures are still lingering just below 5° at their highest.

 

“I think it stopped.” Yuuri’s voice crackles out, tired and congested sounding from behind the tissue barrier. 

 

Viktor pulls his hand away hesitantly, waiting for a few ticks to make sure the deluge has truly passed before tossing the blood-soaked hanky in the bin. “Let’s get this food in you before it tries to start up again, hmm?” Viktor stirs dizzy circles into the white, gelatinous porridge, unearthing wispy wafts of steam. “Do you want some jam or honey in it? Maybe butter?”

 

Yuuri pales and bites his cracked lower lip, his answer made obvious by the uneasy set of his jaw. 

 

Viktor starts to spoon up the porridge and feed Yuuri himself, but thinks the better of it at the last second, handing him the container instead. There is nothing Viktor wants more than to pamper his fiancé until his sickness has completely abated, but he suspects without the delirium of a high fever, Yuuri would prefer not to be treated as a helpless invalid. “Just a few bites, okay?” Vikor encourages when Yuuri only stares miserably into the bowl.

 

Yuuri swallows thickly but nods, lifting the spoon to his mouth with trembling fingers. He scrapes his teeth against the utensil, unwilling to close his mouth around it and fully accept the bite. 

 

He is relieved to find that his stomach doesn’t immediately flip when the porridge touches his tongue. Yuuri scoops up another small spoonful, allowing himself to accept a larger bite this time. He is unable to gather either taste or smell in his current state, but the texture is soft and warm and slides easily down his battered throat. 

 

Viktor gives a relieved sigh and pats his knee. His smile doesn’t wane, even when Yuuri hands over the container after managing only a little more than a quarter of his meal. “You did so good, moya lyubov,” Viktor praises, depositing an antibiotic into Yuuri’s clammy palm. 

 

Yuuri chokes it down with the juice. He finds it considerably harder to take than the porridge; the pill scrapes painfully against his swollen larynx, sparking his throat with renewed stinging agony. Viktor rubs Yuuri’s back while he sputters helplessly into his hands, his face turning red from the strain. Why they hadn’t prescribed Yuuri liquid antibiotics is beyond Viktor, but he composes angry Yelp reviews in his head between uttering soothing words of comfort into his fiancé’s ears. 

 

The fit finally ends after a few long minutes—thankfully without the expulsion of his breakfast. Yuuri leans bonelessly into the couch cushions—completely spent—and doesn’t protest when Viktor wipes a wet washcloth over his face, folding it over his forehead and pecking a kiss to his cheekbone.  

 

“Get some sleep,” Viktor tells him, or at least Yuuri thinks he does. The sound is distorted—nebulous and distant through the joint effort of fever-born exhaustion and fluid-filled ear drums. The hand in his hair feels real, though, as well as the barely audible pitchy humming that lulls him into peaceful unconsciousness.  

 

Yuuri wakes again in what looks to be late afternoon, judging by the waning light streaming through the crack in Viktor’s blackout curtains. He feels just as congested as before: his limbs are weak—his thoughts waterlogged—and it seems as though he is receiving all sensory information through a fishbowl fitted tightly around his head. 

 

The lack of substantial improvement is frustrating, but maybe not totally unexpected. At the very least, it seems his fever has dropped—if the sweat-soaked blankets and muted ache in his head is anything to go by. He does feel more alert than he did previously, though it still takes him a handful of minutes to realize Yurio and Viktor are sitting at the coffee table right in front of his spot on the couch, absorbed in a game of Life.  

 

“How are Yuuri and I supposed to fit our four kids in a split level, Yurio? The twins can’t even sit next to each other without fighting!”

 

“Just pay the damn banker, geezer, I need to get fired from my accounting job so I can become a superstar.”

 

Yuuri tries to lie quietly and listen to their bantering (Viktor manages to convince Yurio to let him upgrade to a Victorian—’ _ my name is ‘Viktor,’ Yurio, it’s clearly meant to be _ ’—in exchange for Yurio’s own occupation swap. Yuuri hasn’t played Life since he was a kid, but he’s fairly certain this is not a maneuver approved by the official directions), but eventually gives himself away with an unexpected sneeze.   

 

Viktor drops the pink plastic car he’s moving around the game board and turns around with a bright smile. “Look who’s awake,” he exclaims, handing Yuuri a tissue.  

 

“‘Bout time.” Yuri grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. 

 

Viktor presses a palm to Yuuri’s forehead, shoulders sagging in relief at the lack of heat. “How are you feeling?”

 

Yuuri takes a hitching breath and clears his throat. “Better,” he rasps, though his voice doesn’t support his claim. It’s not a total lie; he still has a ways to go to return to perfect health, but his throat seems improved. At the very least, every breath doesn’t feel like licking flames burning a scorching path into his lungs, even if his chest still rattles with fluid.  

 

“We put water bowls on the vents!” Viktor tells him excitedly, pointing at a water-filled pan over the nearby floor register. 

 

“I...see that,” Yuuri says slowly, not totally understanding the significance.  

 

“It works like a humidifier,” Yurio explains, flicking the game dial and watching it spin. “It was also  _ my _ idea.”

 

Yuuri coughs lightly into his fist—clearing the mucus in his throat with a faint crackle—and smiles. “Thanks, Yurio. It really helps.”

 

Yurio presses his lips together and busies himself with counting his fake money. His cheeks are dusted red—his embarrassment obvious—but neither Yuuri nor Viktor comment on it. 

 

“Do you want to play a game with us?” Viktor asks, rubbing Yuuri’s knee. 

 

Yuuri contemplates it. He feels more awake than he has in a while, but his head still thrums with a dull headache and he doubts he’d be able to gather the mental aptitude to handle Viktor and Yurio’s creative rules. He cups a hand over his mouth and clears the sticking phlegm from his throat. “Nn. I’ll pass.”

 

“Hmm,” Viktor hums thoughtfully, zipping up Yuuri’s jacket a little further when he shakes with a full body shiver. “A movie then?”

 

“I’m picking it out,” Yurio cuts in immediately. “There’s no fucking way I’m sitting through Crossroads again.”

 

“How dare you. Britney Spears is a treasure,” Viktor counters, throwing Yuuri a secret wink. 

 

Yuuri smiles in response, coughing into his elbow to hide a laugh. “Yeah, okay,” he agrees. “Let’s watch a movie.”

 

There’s a brief dispute over seating arrangements. Yurio insists he not be made to sit on the floor, but the couch is a tight fit, even with Yurio’s slender frame. Viktor taps a finger to his lips—contemplating the space—before snapping his fingers with realization. 

 

“I’ve got it,” he happily exclaims, sliding his arms behind Yuuri’s back and legs and hoisting him up and into his lap. “There we go,” he beams, tucking the blanket around Yuuri’s sides. “Perfect fit!”

 

Yurio rolls his eyes to the ceiling with a groan and Yuuri blushes behind a smile and leans his head on Viktor’s shoulder.  

 

Yurio picks out some kind of blood-soaked horror movie. Yuuri tries to stay focused on it, but he finds his eyes growing blurry halfway through, rocked back to sleep by Yurio’s yelling for Makkachin to stay away from his popcorn and the sensation of his fiancé’s rumbling laugh against his back. 

 

Viktor will take him out to dinner weeks later when the last remaining vestiges of his illness have vanished. He’ll carry him over the threshold to their home and scatter the bed with rose petals and dress Makkachin up in a suit collar and tie. It’s exceedingly romantic, but Yuuri doesn’t so much mind this introduction to his new life in Russia—crammed on a couch with his new family, surrounded by boundless laughter and love.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> somehow I decided I didn't have enough going on so I made art? for my own fic? you can [reblog](http://youremarvelous.tumblr.com/post/158976166958/i-made-art-for-my-fanfic-auspices-sequel-to) here if you want. 
> 
> thank you all for your comments and kudos, you all kept me motivated to finish this thing. you're the best <3
> 
> as always, you can check me on [tumblr](http://youremarvelous.tumblr.com/) if you wanna chat! I'm semi thinking about starting a little series of sickfics? cause tbh they're super fun to write. let me know?


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